There’s a vase of wilted flowers by my bedside that I refuse to throw away. Outside my window, there’s a tree the colour of the setting sun; its leaves are hanging so loose like they’re about to fall. After a minute or so, a light breeze sweeps one of those leaves right past me. It takes a mid air twirl before gently falling to the ground.
A butterfly is fluttering around the potted plants; there’s a jingle in its flight, but its wings are mellow.
Autumn is at its prime; I say it out loud.
Another year gone, and although each year end marks the passage of time; for me it is marked as a box of lessons I’ve learned, labelled and sealed, pushed under my bed, for the years yet to come.
If I had to look back at 2017 and how it played out, I can easily say it was one of my tougher years.
In light of what happened in Manhattan,
A wound was struck deep with a carving fork,
Our minds are wild, but our hearts are sadden’
Starting with 26/11, now to New York.
Like a trail of blood for everyone to see,
A scary sight, from which we flee.
But let’s face it,
the Taj Oberoi attacks were deadly scary,
With 164 dead and 308 wounded,
It’s natural that it would make us wary.
But what happened to dear departed Kasab?
If he’s watching this,
Like salt in our wound, I see him rub.
I’m back in the mountains.
It’s the place I come to when I’m at a crossroad; it’s also the place where I realized I wanted to be a writer.
Of course, my mom had predicted this a long time ago, but it was only when I was up here, did I truly accept it.
